Ishmael Reed - The Last Days of Louisiana Red

What they have down there must be very special to have so many people to cater to. But he will fail. It’s history’s law; he will be engulfed by his contradictions and swept away like the swimmer in strong current. The current of history. What would I do without Nanny? My only friend. I’m glad she stayed on at Wolf’s request. Every other Thursday. Where does she go on Thursdays? This has been her only secret for years .

She stepped out of her dirty jeans. She wasn’t wearing any panties. She removed her blue-collar shirt. She wore no bra either. She took off her sneakers last. She had a fine body in the sense that a panther moving with those fine limbs has a fine body, and like the panther this was the kind of young woman’s body that could eat you up, if you know what I mean. (She had a panther’s reach and its grip, that is if you invaded her bush. She’d snap at you, squeeze you and hold you tight.) She stretched out on the sofa and, her teeth protruding, eyes closed, she began unconsciously to writhe. But she stopped that. She was embarrassed because Nanny was standing in the doorway with the quart of beer. Nanny smiled.

“Ready for the stories, Minnie?”

Chorus: Now, about this Antigone. According to writing found written on Egyptian papyri, there’s a later episode of the myth. In this version, Creon, due to the counsel of Teiresias, was able to save Antigone. (pause; lights a cigar, inhales and resumes) As a result he lost favor with the right wing of his government. Reprieve was interpreted as a justification for her action; the girl became emboldened. Creon was close to her secret ambition when he said, “I am no man, she is the man, if this victory shall rest with her and bring no penalty.” Creon, a member of the old school, was indulging in some petty dyke-baiting when he said that. To be a man was easy; chump change. Antigone was after bigger game. She wanted to be a sphinx: head and breasts of a woman; bird’s wings; lion’s feet and a snake’s ass. A hissing, barking, distorted eye-balling bitch is what she was out for. This version goes on to say that contrary to the strong-willed law-and-order man we read about in the other story, Creon was swayed by popular opinion and occasionally went about anonymously collecting information from the people — a practice future tyrants would imitate. When Creon saw how incensed the population was towards him, he relented and freed Antigone. Antigone was exonerated for ritualistically burying Polynices, that is, sprinkling “a handful of dust” over the corpse, as was the old religion’s practice. Creon gave the corpse a state funeral, but so disfigured was the body from the mawling, clawing animals, the corpse wasn’t shown.

This fragment is later confirmed by a picture on a vase. Here we see Antigone, standing with a child. Haemon stands next to them, but he looks blurred. Some say that this is because some wild female member of the cult which sprang up after Antigone’s example had come along and rubbed him out of the picture.

After his father died, heartbroken, Haemon discovered that the old geezer was right all the time. Antigone was a being of perfidy, spite and deviousness, given to lying even when it wasn’t absolutely necessary. She used her good looks to get ahead. Ismene, always half-heartedly giving in to Antigone’s every request, was getting wiser too. When she finally caught Antigone in the secret act, she quietly retired to her bedroom, drinking whiskey all day, sequestered from her countrymen.

When the Athenians conquered the Thebans, double agent Antigone made a deal with them. You see, the Athenians were so rational, so civilized they had to have a reason for everything, including barbarity. They sent Antigone on tour. She teamed up with her nanny, a confidante and rough-looking woman from the old days; formerly Antigone’s nurse, but now making a reputation from her “readings.” In these “readings” Nanny depicted the Theban males as weak and simpering while Antigone would play the guitar. Or sometimes they would exchange roles. Nanny would jug it out while Antigone told a plaintive tale of the “lost woman” abandoned by her man. Whenever a man was seen as a hero in their work, Nanny adorned him with the woman’s garb.

In exile Haemon kept returning to Creon’s argument. “I am no man if she is the man.” His father had accused him of being “the woman’s champion.”

He had believed her. Now he knew he had been her trick, and she had turned him out. She told him that she no longer craved the woods of Thebes, mysterious, and the scene of diabolical rites like the Santa Cruz woods; of mutilated victims. She promised him she no longer desired to meet Hades, her lover, who wore a rank-smelling coat made of goatskins. Haemon had loved her so he couldn’t see straight, and so he paid; he paid hard.

“I like not an evil wife for you, son,” his father had said.

Antigone’s faith was sweeping the countryside. Winning converts. She faced many encores. Their son was handed over to allies of hers.

Meanwhile, Haemon sharpened his axe in Bohemia. He was beginning to like what he was and what he was doing; enjoying it for the first time in his life. Although it was quiet, although only a handful turned out to hear him, even though his checks were questioned and the restaurants handed his kind the bill immediately after putting down the dinner, it was quiet; you could see the ocean if you looked hard enough. Occasionally he missed the hubbub of Thebes. He traveled among statesmen, scribes, merchants, as well as supped in mansions referred to by the hostesses as “our little cottage.”

One day the word came from Thebes that Antigone had gotten what she was after. She was high priestess, which was as good as Sphinx. The Theban males were rounded up and marched naked through the streets as, in the background, homes could be seen burning. Others kept themselves warm around a primitive fire. In the amphitheatre, the woman who had been bucking for Sphinx had her name spelled out with flares by her shrieking followers. Her running buddy, Nanny, read a poem or two to warm them up, but when Antigone came on there was no controlling them as this professional shrew screamed, cursed and, in rage, shook her fists.

One night, Haemon sneaked into the surrounding suburbs of Thebes. He sat on a horse overlooking the city. Much had changed. First, Haemon thought, he would see his son; then he would bring Antigone down.

THE MOOCHERS HAVE A CRISIS

The committee meeting was to be held at the Gross Christian Church, San Francisco’s truly avant-garde center of worship. The first thing you came upon was the entrance, over which could be seen a sign spelling out “PEACE” in the manner of the garish neon signs one saw at the bottomless topless clubs on Broadway. Rev. Rookie’s church was a reconverted niteclub. Inside he stands behind one of the long elegant bars which has been restored to its original furnishings. On the walls are black light psychedelic posters of Harry Belafonte, Sammy Davis, Jr. (the name of Jefferson Davis’ body servant, incidentally), and Quincy Jones. Whenever “Q” came to the Circle Star Theatre, Rev. Rookie would be right there, in the front row, whooping it up, yelling such colorful expletives as “right on,” and “get down,” which he would say twice, “get down, get down.” Another one of his expressions was “can you dig it?” Quite effective when used sparingly, which Rev. Rookie didn’t. Cats were circling the room. Moochers love cats, perhaps because you have to be crafty and dexterous and phony-finicky to be a Moocher, winning your territory inch by inch. Rev. Rookie had a motley congregation and really didn’t care about their life styles. He had twisted old John Wesley’s philosophy so that he had forgotten the theology he started out with. Rev. Rookie was real ecumenical. Gushing with it. I mean, he ecumenicaled all over himself, but he wasn’t one of these obvious old-fashioned preachers. No, when he spoke of God, he didn’t come right out and mention his Hebrew name. God, for him, was always a “force,” or a “principle.”